


Fuck My Life

by Emelye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My A levels were a thing of beauty. I matriculated Oxbridge. I read history, economics, political science. I was top of my class every year. </p>
<p>I am Mycroft Holmes’ PA."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck My Life

I have a new phone. It’s not yet available to the public. I can wirelessly sync to any device or operating system that doesn’t yet have a highly specific firewall enabled to keep me out. 

You should see my iTunes now. Jogging is nearly a delight.

My boss, of course, has the same phone, so I wasn’t able to keep that wallpaper of him sleeping at his desk, drool puddling beneath his ginger-stubbled chin, but I’d never really hoped to. Still. Those few hours after I snapped the picture were practically the highlight of my career, the incident with the Chinese ambassador notwithstanding. But we can’t have anyone knowing Mycroft Holmes is anything less than the thinking, reasoning, cold and analytical machine the British Government requires him to be, however moulded in clay his feet may seem when he’s been deprived of sleep for seventy-two hours.

God I hate his office. Ninety percent of the time, the concrete bunker just seems like ego-inflating, windowless overkill. But then there are the bomb scares and assassination attempts and I remember that if he dies, I’m virtually unhireable. There’s no paper trail of employment for the last seven years, no accomplishments I can speak of without committing high treason and certainly no references.

Keeping him alive is really in everyone’s best interest. I can put on another cardi to cope with the chill underground.

My A levels were a thing of beauty. I matriculated Oxbridge. I read history, economics, political science. I was top of my class every year. 

I am Mycroft Holmes’ PA. I have a phone. It has one number in it. His. We are not fucking. Ergo, I have not had anything resembling sex in almost a decade. My vagina likely has vapor lock by now. 

I sleep in a one bedroom flat near the office in a highly secure location. I’m sorry, that was a lie. What I really meant, is that there is a one bedroom flat near the office that is leased to an alias I used once in Poland. On slow weeks, I’ve been known to catch a nap there. It is where I keep my very impersonal and impossible to trace belongings. Anything remotely dear to me is in a lockbox in the bunker I call home. 

Holmes’ office.

So, the good bits. Did I mention the phone? The Savile Row wardrobe, the Jaguar, all fairly decent perks. 

The best bit by far? The _drama_.

I’m not talking about the cloak-and-dagger state dinners, the endless policy meetings, the king-making machinations. Those were titillating for the first year or so until they became predictable and tedious more often than not. 

No, I’m talking about the _personal_ drama. When you’ve watched a man who has literally hand-picked world leaders for the gain of the Empire stagger into his office, his two-thousand pound suit covered in sick and wearing a black eye after wrestling his junky brother into rehab for the hundredth time, well, let’s just say it gives me a little thrill, the likes of which I no longer get to feel otherwise.

Don’t mistake me. I like my boss. Genuinely. He can be surprisingly kind, which is good, since he’s basically my only friend now. The thing of it is, he loses his edge when he doesn’t consider the human factor in his work. He starts looking at the world as his personal chess board and it throws him when the pawns sacrifice power and avarice for any of the lovely human intangibles that drive the rest of the populace not named Holmes. Mycroft knee-deep in sick is just one more reminder that those variables exist. It’s good for him.

And makes a bloody good wallpaper on my phone.

There is a problem, though. His name is Watson. John Watson. And he’s going to cock up my life.

The bastard chatted me up the first time we met. If I had known what a colossal pain in my ass he would become, I’d have arranged his death then and there. There’s an app for that. 

Instead I brushed him off, and went back to the office where I found he’d taken rooms with Sherlock, Holmes’ brother. The ex-junky.

What happened thereafter is a matter of public record. Honestly, for itself, I couldn’t give a damn if Holmes’ brother decided to shack up with the entirety of Her Majesty’s guard. What I care about is how much better he’s doing. How he’s helped us on a few smaller matters. How he’s eating, and looking fit and starting to behave like a human being instead of a Holmes. 

And, more to the point, how Mycroft is starting to look at his brother and Watson with something like _wistfulness_ when he monitors the security feed. 

It’s one thing for Holmes to be reminded that feelings exist in the world. It’s another thing entirely to _do_ something about them. And I’m not fond of the way he’s been acting when the DI comes around. 

He let him in our _office_ for God’s sake!

Let’s just picture this, shall we? Mycroft decides to branch out into the exciting world of ‘personal entanglements’. Never mind my bitterness over not getting a leg over in eight years, there are valid reasons we don’t get personally involved in our line of work. And if he starts dating that DI, forget the time away he really can’t afford while North Korea is in a strop, he’s going to start thinking about his own life in the singular. He’s going to become less interested in playing with world powers like he’s dominating a game of Risk and start thinking about other things. Sex, probably. He’s going to stop charming dignitaries in favor of charming a working-class copper. And then where am I? 

Out. On. My. Arse.

It’s all fine and well for Mycroft Holmes to throw in the towel. I don’t have a bloody national insurance number anymore. 

Here are my options as I see them: First, I could support this rubbish. As I said, I like my boss. I’d be happy for him, personally, if he put some steel in his spine and asked the man out. I’d give myself six months before they moved in together and I’d be removing my things from the office safe. I’d like to think Mycroft would reinstate my identity, but I’d still have to leave the country and I’m not fucking moving to another country after spending the better part of my twenties and early thirties serving this one. England owes me sex with a decent, British man if my political career is over before I’m forty. I’d prefer Harry, but I will settle for Colin Firth if needs must. I don’t feel this is unreasonable.

Second, I blow this whole thing up before it starts. I have an app for that. I send in teams to plant evidence of infidelity, orchestrate a row, and _voilà_. I have my boss and my job back and all is right with the world. Until Russia gets their back up and Mycroft is lost because he’s completely burned and buried his heart where not even his baby brother can find it. 

Option three. I do nothing. I do not outwardly support his dalliance, nor do I condemn it. He’ll likely be quietly desperate for me to weigh in on the situation. As he is my only friend, so I am his. I do not weigh in. I let him flounder. On his own, it will take a year, maybe more for them to finally get together. It will be another year after that before they talk about moving in together. 

In the meantime, I will graciously assume the projects Mycroft no longer has time for. I will execute them flawlessly and in my own name. Mycroft will go on dates, and I will quietly take over. 

Fucking John Watson. He could have left Sherlock alone and all would have been fine, but no. Now they’re blissfully domestic, Mycroft is pining, and I have to take over the world.

Fuck my life.


End file.
